


Old Habits

by ImpartialGorgon



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-23
Packaged: 2019-05-10 11:21:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14736023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpartialGorgon/pseuds/ImpartialGorgon
Summary: We all agree, Hawke needs a better way to get new armor.





	Old Habits

“That one!”

The mercenary was striking down on Fenris, who was visibly fatigued, when Hawke called attention to him. Directly across the dimly lit cavern Varric leveled Bianca at the man and shot three bolts directly into his breastplate.

The final foe felled, Hawke shouted out, clearly annoyed, “What were you thinking, Varric!? Now it’s useless!”

“That armor was useless before I filled it with holes. You should really be thanking me,” he called back.

Hawke searched each body methodically: purse for coin; ears, neck, and fingers for adornments; quivers and scabbards for weaponry. Since the time she accidentally stumbled (literally and figuratively) across the corpse with hidden pockets, she was sure to give each subsequent victim a final, thorough pat down.

“What about those boots?” She called out to her companions. “They look like they might fit me.”

“No, you don’t want those. Those boots are unlucky.”

“Ooh, how can you tell, Varric? Are you very good at fortunes too?” Merrill quickly chirped.

“He died in them, Daisy! How much more unlucky can you get!?”

Hawke paused for a long moment, then bent down for a closer look at a helm that contained a very decapitated head.

“I wouldn’t wear that,” Fenris offered.

“There isn’t that much blood. Merrill, tell him it’s fine.”

The dainty elf shook her head quickly. “Oh no, you probably shouldn’t. That’s really quite dirty.”

The look of shock on Hawke’s face told the tale of Merrill’s betrayal. “You too? You’re a blood mage, for Maker’s sake!”

“Well, yes I am. But it’s not quite as messy as all that,” She gestured at the gore-encrusted headwear.

Fenris shook his head. “Give it up, Hawke. Maybe you’ll find something better next time.”

 

* * *

 

The Hanged Man was bustling that night, but the group was able to snag their usual table.

“You’ve spent so many years scrapping, now you can afford to get yourself something nice,” Varric suggested after the first drink, the day’s adventure still fresh. “In fact, I know a place that makes great armor. No need to shake skeletons out of it first.”

Hawke has the audacity to sound indignant, “I’ll have you know my equipment isn’t exclusively scavenged from corpses.”

“No, sometimes you find it in the piles of filth of Darktown,” Aveline added.

Isabella looked down to the rings on her fingers in disgust, “Maker’s balls, Hawke! Is that where you found all that jewelry you gave me!?”

“Speaking of Darktown! Hawke, you can’t keep wearing Templar armor into Darktown anymore! You’re scaring people witless!” Anders hissed in a soft voice.

Fenris glared at the mage. “Scaring you witless, you mean. By all means continue doing so, Hawke.”

“Aveline, you must have lots of extra armor for the guards. Couldn’t you spare a bit?”

“No Merrill. If the people see her wearing the same armor as the guards while she’s engaged in a... less-than-legal activity, it would give the impression that the integrity of the guards is compromised again,” Sebastian explained carefully.

Aveline’s eyes narrowed as she glared directly at Hawke herself. “If I ever catch you wearing guardsman armor I will personally and publicly lock you up.”

“Bright and early tomorrow morning, we’ll find you something you’ll like.” Varric clapped the rogue on the back as a decisive end to that topic.

 

* * *

 

True to his word, Varric came to collect Marian first thing. He did not lead her to the Hightown marketplace, and did not slow his pace past the merchant’s table in Lowtown. Instead, they entered a lonely door in the foundry district, which was clearly a warehouse-turned-storefront.

“Good morning madam”

“Good morning master Tethras. Smith won’t be back for another day or two, so custom orders will take a while. But our stock is good, and we have several items available now if you want to look around.”

A retinue entered the store while they browsed, but did not draw their attention until the argument began.

“I’m sorry sir, sales of our custom pieces are final, but Smith can fix it up to your needs when he gets back.”

“That is not enough! The wyvern hunt is merely weeks away, and I refuse to attend in this scrap. I commission quality and receive this instead?”

At a gesture a bodyguard presented a chest piece to the shopkeeper in a rough manner. The design was simple and unembellished, but it was clear to see this man had received superior workmanship for his coin.

“How do you expect me to show my face in Orlais wearing this? As if the damage weren’t enough, it offends the eyes to look at. It is the armor of a stablehand.”

Marian Hawke had given up all pretenses of minding her own business, and stared openly at the ongoing spectacle.

Varric held on to her sleeve, knowing exactly her thoughts, and muttered in a low voice, “Hawke no. You can’t attack a person just because you like their armor.”

“Spoiled child, playing at adventure,” she whispered back. “He wouldn’t know quality if it stabbed him in the gut.”

“Please don’t stab him in the gut.”

The argument had escalated in the meantime, and the very angry nobleman pulled his sword on the shopgirl, flanked by two of his men.

Hawke’s demeanor became utter gleeful.

Varric sighed. “Fine, go stab him in the gut.”

She approached the group of dangerous-looking men with a smile stretched across her face. “If you know what’s good for you, I suggest resheathing your weapons.”

“This is not your matter. I will settle my own business.”

“I will not tolerate you harassing this innocent woman.”

“Who are you to stop me?”

The scuffle between the groups did not last long. The pair of rogues had the advantage of experience, and the wealthy man was eager to demonstrate a skill he did not possess, getting in the way of his actual bodyguards.

Battered and bruised, the entourage was reduced to half-carrying, half-dragging their employer as they retreated from the store.

“You won’t come back if you know what’s good for you,” Varric called out the door after them. “Ballsy of him to start a fight not knowing a blade from a grip like that.”

“Varric, it’s not damaged, it’s just scratches! All cosmetic, no cracks or dents!” Hawke was pawing at the newly abandoned armor, avarice in her eyes.

He shook his head slowly. How could he have expected this excursion to have ended differently? “Leave it to you to be scavenging here.”


End file.
